


the gasp and stutter of a heart

by daveck



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daveck/pseuds/daveck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like she believes the world has lost some of it’s magic, but that’s crazy because <i>awe</i> is exactly what she inspired in him. That first day, yeah, and every one since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** This is something I’ve been thinking about since I first saw season three. It’s not exactly AU, but rather a bit of a re-working. I had decided to sit on it until a lot of it was done, but I figure some accountability might help push me into finishing it. Thanks to – well, my brother, actually, for looking this over for me. Cheers, bro. And Wendy, for her help, even if she’ll never read this. *g*
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Castle is owned by the dudes who own Castle, obviously. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made.

Rick sucks in a deep breath and ignores the heavy sting of chlorine that burns against the back of his throat. 

The flashes of blue and red reflect off the surface of the pool and it’s easier than he thought it could be to ignore the chaos of the scene playing out behind him. 

The guys are hanging around somewhere, he knows. Ryan was being tended to by the paramedics last he saw, and Esposito’s bound to be hovering nearby. Kate – well, he’d lost track of her early on, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it? 

The way she’d been looking at him – grateful, relieved, like he could be the only thing that mattered – he hadn’t been able to handle it because – This? It’s his fault at the end of the day, isn’t it?

If he’d just figured it out sooner. If he hadn’t been so cocky, so sure, to just blurt out his theory in front of the man. But no, he had to play his hand because oh, he was _so clever_ , wasn’t he? 

His own damn fault, all of it. 

And the next girl? Blonde hair and innocent, unseeing eyes? That’s all on him. 

Rick looks up at the sound of footsteps. It’s Kate, of course, but she’s not looking at him that way – not looking at him _at all_ actually – and maybe she’s realised he’s to blame. 

He’s sure that he deserves her scorn, but she just settles next to him in silence. 

She sits close enough that their knees brush, and then she slides closer still, until she’s pressing against him, thigh to thigh, calf to calf, and he feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. 

“Here you go.”

Rick takes the cup she offers but he doesn’t drink from it. “Thanks.”

Kate hums in her throat. “Tell me something, Castle. Why did he let you live?”

It’s obvious, isn’t it? 

“To punish me. To make me pay for ruining his plan. Now he’s going to kill again, all because I couldn’t stop him. And I feel so…” 

Impotent. Stupid. Angry. Worthless. 

All of that and more. 

He doesn’t have the words for it, can’t think of a way to summarise the bubble of anger and worry and acid churning in his gut, and that makes it worse, of course, because he’s a wordsmith and it’s supposed to be what he does best. 

A hand settles on his knee, understanding and warm. “I know the feeling.”

 _It’s my fault_ , he wants to say. _I did this,_ but when he looks at her there’s no accusation in her eyes, no heat or fire or anger. She doesn’t blame him and he doesn’t understand why not, exactly, but Rick wraps his own hand around hers, squeezes tight, and lets her simple truth anchor him. “I know you do.” 

Kate’s face twists into a frown, unnatural in the blue light reflected off the pool. The shadows highlight the angle of her cheekbones, the depth of her eyes, and her face is strange and familiar to him all at once. 

He leans towards her, feels the puff of her breath against his cheek, and lets her draw him back from his own thoughts. 

She’s looking at their hands, he realises, when his eyes follow hers. They’re still clasped together, but his sleeve has rolled up, and there are angry marks burnt red on his wrists.

“He could have killed you, Castle.” 

“But he didn’t.” 

“I thought I was going to find a body.” 

“I’m fine, Beckett.”

Kate bumps her shoulder against his arm and turns her face back to the pool. “I’m glad,” she says.

It’s the second time she’s said as much and he squeezes her hand because he doesn’t know how else to respond. 

They sit together then, silent, until well after the cup in his hand has lost its warmth. He concentrates on the shoulder pressed against his side, the fingers trapped between his own and, eventually, the tension bleeds out of him until he can breathe without the twist of guilt at the base of his spine. 

“Come on,” she says, and she pulls him to stand. “No point hanging around here all night.” 

He misses the warmth as soon as she’s moved away and so he follows her as she makes her way back through the parking lot. He’s surprised when he finds only a few uniforms left milling about the motel. 

“Boys gone already?”

Kate nods. “Yeah, the paramedics dragged Ryan to the hospital and Espo only stayed long enough to secure the scene.” 

“Leads?” He tries not to wince at how hopeful his voice sounds.

“A few,” she hedges. “C’mon.” 

Rick pauses as they reach her car. “Back to the precinct?” 

“No.” There’s a sigh waiting to escape her throat. “We’ll catch him, Castle. We will. But not tonight.” 

Rick can only nod in response because no, they won’t, he knows, not before he kills again, and maybe not even then. 

“Home?” she asks when he slides into the passenger seat.

Rick knows what he should say – _yes, home_ and _thanks for the rescue, Beckett_ followed possibly by an _I’ll see you tomorrow_ – because he has a mother and a daughter and a girlfriend who are, mostly likely, waiting for him. He should want to see them – and he does – he just can’t find the energy for their questions and their worry. 

He’s used to being the centre of attention and if he’s honest, he enjoys it, mostly, but he needs to find the eye of the storm first. His head is still in a dark place and he needs a bit more calm, a fraction more of this brand of quiet understanding before he can smile at his kid and lie about being in any danger. 

“I’d rather not just yet,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way his partner’s face changes. It’s subtle, but the wrinkle in her brow eases, just a little, and she’s maybe a little bit relieved, he thinks. 

“Okay.” Kate rests her hand over his arm. Her fingers graze the marks on his wrist. “My place, then.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, he wasn’t planning on doing something stupid when he accepted her invitation but, with enough alcohol burning in his veins, he knows there’s a very good chance he’s going to.

Her apartment is dark, the only light filtering in from the street lamps outside, and Rick can’t see enough to navigate the unfamiliar terrain. 

He considers turning on a light because he’s sick of darkness, metaphorical and otherwise, but he doesn’t make the effort when he feels her fingers thread through his own. 

Kate guides him to the kitchen and he thinks he might feel her thumb brush the inside of his wrist before they reach the counter and she lets go of him. “You should have let the EMTs check you out.” 

“I’m fine,” he insists, even though his wrists burn and his shoulders ache. 

He hears her sigh and he can’t quite make it out but he can imagine the frown that accompanies it. She doesn’t say anything more, though, and he’s grateful. 

She moves around him in the dim light, brushing past him once and then again, to produce two glasses and a bottle. 

“Tequila?” The corners of his lips quirk upward.

“In your dreams,” she quips, and he feels almost normal for the first time in hours. 

“Are you planning on getting me drunk, Detective?” he asks as she pushes a glass into his hand. 

“Just shut up and drink, Castle.”

And so he does. 

The taste bites against his tongue. Whiskey. Not to his usual standard, no, but it’s decent and more than good enough as it burns a path downwards to settle in the pit of his stomach, hard and hot.

Kate refills his glass, fingers brushing his as she holds it steady, and then he’s throwing it back, relishing the burn, before he can think about how much he shouldn’t and how bad an idea it is, really. 

Honestly, he wasn’t planning on doing something stupid when he accepted her invitation but, with enough alcohol burning in his veins, he knows there’s a very good chance he’s going to. 

Kate’s still standing close, too close in the dark, and he can barely see her, but he can smell her and feel her and hear the slow exhale of her breath. 

She brushes against him as she throws her head back, swallowing her own drink, and he wonders if they’re really going to get drunk in her kitchen. 

“Beckett?”

“Just-” She sighs. “Just have a drink with me, Castle.” 

He thinks about her father and considers asking her if they’re really going to do this, if she often does, but he ignores the urge because no, he knows her. 

“Okay.” 

And then she’s refilling his glass again and it’s hard enough to hold back the _I think I’m halfway in love with you_ when he doesn’t need her so damn much and he knows he’s going to ruin their everything if they don’t slow down. 

He swirls the liquid in his glass and tries to distract himself by imagining how deep the amber might be. Words like _honey-coloured_ and _autumn_ start to pop into his head as he falls back into the habit of breaking his world down into words. It’s dangerous, he knows, to let his mind start down that path because, if he were writing the scene, he knows how he would end it. 

Still, he doesn’t make a move to leave and he lets the hand that appears on his shoulder steer him towards her couch. 

“Sit,” she commands, and he does. 

She moves to step away and he snatches her hand. “Stay,” he counters. And then, “Please.” Because he _does_ know better.

“Relax, Castle. I’m just going to turn on the lights.” 

“Okay.” But he doesn’t relinquish his hold, too afraid, suddenly, that _she’s_ the calm in his storm and if she leaves he’s going to lose it. After a moment and a sigh, she drops down next to him. 

He lets go of her hand and then they’re not quite touching, because it’s different in the dark of her apartment, less comforting and more electric, but she _understands_ , truly, and that makes it still okay somehow. 

Neither one of them is drunk, but there must be enough alcohol in her system to make her brave, because she turns to him in the dim light and states, “I think you should quit.” 

“What?”

“Following me around, Castle. I think you should stop.” 

He knows that it’s because she’s scared for him, knows that it’s because she cares – she wouldn’t have let him follow her home if it was for any other reason – but that doesn’t stop the way it bruises. 

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says, trying to deflect with humour. 

“I’m serious, Rick.” Her hand finds his cheek and she turns his face towards her. “You didn’t sign up for this.” 

He keeps his eyes closed because he can see her better in his mind in any case. “Neither did you. Nobody signs up for a serial killer.” 

“I wasn’t almost killed today.” 

And there it is again. 

“C’mon, Beckett, we’ve had closer calls than this.” It’s the wrong thing to say, he realises, as she pulls away from him. 

“Exactly my point.” 

He catches the hand that drops from his cheek. “What would you do without me?” 

She snorts and he corrects himself, “What would _I_ do without _you_?” 

“Live to an old age?” 

She’s serious, he can tell, and so he pulls her towards him, wraps his arms around her before he can convince himself it’s a bad idea. “Not because of this,” he says into the top of head. “I’ll leave if you want me to. I’ll leave if it will keep you safe, but not because of this, Kate.” 

“Then you’re an idiot,” she says into the side of his neck but her arms wind around his waist and he’s sure he’d be hurt, if not for the way she sinks into his embrace. 

The smell of her fills his lungs, her warmth wrapped around him, and it’s just to ease the ache inside his chest, he reasons, and not the alcohol that fuels his confession. “It crossed my mind that he might kill us. And maybe, for a moment, my life might have flashed before my eyes, but you have to know, Kate. This? What we do? It isn’t something I could regret, not even if it meant going out that way.” 

She presses her lips to his cheek. A brief kiss, he thinks, but she lets herself linger and he can feel the cold press of her nose against his cheekbone, the warmth of her breath against his skin, and then he can’t _not_ turn his head. 

Rick moves slowly but she doesn’t pull away and it’s an awkward press of his lips against hers and it’s not great, as far as first kisses go, but it kicks his heart into overdrive all the same. 

He moves his lips against hers, moves his hands to cradle her jaw, and she’s soft and warm and it takes him a moment to realise that Kate doesn’t respond. But she isn’t pushing him away, either, and he’s confused until the thought springs in his head, taking hold and spreading like a weed until it’s twisted in everything he feels. 

_Pity_. 

She’s letting him kiss her and it’s everything he’s wanted for a long time, she must know, but it’s out of pity, and that’s not _how_ he wanted it, and the how’s important.

The need manifests as an ache in his chest because being her partner wasn’t one of his regrets, but this? This thing between them that he’s never had? That is. 

The cold air is a slap to the face when he pulls away and he knew before he kissed her that he shouldn’t. They both have a _someone else_ who should make them feel alive and he isn’t that guy. 

He’s not serious about his ex-wife, no, but he doesn’t cheat as a general rule. He’s maybe more than halfway in love with Kate, yeah, but he won’t fall into bed with his partner because she _pities_ him enough. 

Kate’s eyes are wide, he can see the glint of them in the dim light, and he drops his hands from her face. It’s an effort but he slides away from her, moving along the length of the couch, because his place is not with her, in her arms or against her lips. 

Not yet and maybe not ever but certainly not now.

“Kate.” The apology is on the tip of his tongue – _I’m sorry. Moment of weakness. Won’t happen again. I promise. One day._ – but then Kate wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him back to her. 

Rick’s hand finds her waist, for balance, first, but she’s deepening the kiss, tugging at his lips and his fingers twist fabric until they find skin as she pushes her tongue into his mouth. Her kiss is full of hunger and heat and it’s not pity that he tastes, but need. 

_Fuck._

He can’t tell her to stop. He won’t. 

He’s already ruined for his someone else, isn’t he? And maybe she needs this and maybe he does too. Maybe he needs it more than he needs to not be _that guy_ and so he lets her swallow his protest. 

She rises to her knees, a shadow above him, and he tilts his head as her nails scratch through his hair. She catches his bottom lip, pulls it between her teeth, and it’s electricity and danger and the taste of whiskey. 

The light is gone then, blocked by her figure, so he keeps his eyes closed, smells her perfume. He feels her move and imagines her face. 

When she leans backwards she doesn’t need to use the arm around his neck to keep him with her. He follows her, willing, like he always has, until she’s underneath him, pinned by his weight and then she shifts, wraps a leg around his hip, and he’s pinned to her too. 

He rocks against her, instinct and need, and a gasp of breath pulls her lips from his. 

The fingers twisted in his hair don’t let him retreat and she turns her head, gives him access to her neck. Happy to oblige, he drops open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. 

She smells like soap, tastes like salt and sweat and something dark, and she doesn’t push him away when his lips crash back to hers. 

She pulls him tighter against her as she tries to forget the marks on his wrists that should have been around his neck and he tries to forget it all. 

\--

TBC…


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was amazing,” he tells her. And then, “the way you knocked him out.” But he means the kiss, the them, and she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologise for the time leap. I tried, I really did, to write something between this chapter and the last, and I got about a thousand words of something set during Nikki Heat, but nothing fit and everything felt like it was just filler, so I decided to stop fighting it and roll with the punches.

the gasp and stutter of a heart 3/?

\--

Rick’s cheating. He knows it’s a bad idea, even as he’s grabbing her by the arm and stealing her shock away with a kiss. He’s not cheating on her, or with her, though her boyfriend means that’s technically true, too, but he’s borrowing a piece of a fantasy, toying with a taste of their future. 

He’s taking liberties he doesn’t deserve but her taste is familiar and foreign, all at once, and she isn’t fighting him. Instead, she follows him when he pulls away and then it’s biting and hot and electric and he nearly forgets about the armed man ambling towards them, nearly forgets about the two detectives that are somewhere behind that door. 

He’s going to want to _talk_ about it this time, and she’s going to want to ignore it again and that makes it almost painful when she spins away to knock out the guard. He’s not sure he can live through another month of _sorry_ in every glance.

“That was amazing,” he tells her. And then, “the way you knocked him out.” But he means the kiss, the _them_ , and she knows. 

He’s already proven that nothing between them has to change. They had a taste of what they could be, a stolen moment where what-if was what-is and when it passed they didn’t let things change. And maybe that’s a bad thing, but they’re still good together, and nothing has to change except that they could be great together. 

“Lets go.” 

She’s slipping towards the doorway then, diving headfirst, gun drawn, into whatever the next moment holds. 

“Stay behind me.” Her voice is a whisper and she motions him back and they’re not wearing vests, they’re not expecting backup. She didn’t hand him her extra piece – he doesn’t know if she still caries one – but he’s all she has to watch her back and so he decides, for once, that he’s going to do as she asks.

She presses her back against the wall at the top of the stairs and he’s there, next to her, when she leans around to try and scope out the room but, in the end, they hear them before they can see them.

_“Shoot out one of his kneecaps.”_

Someone screams in protest and then Kate springs forward, into action, fierce and deadly, and she takes the first one down before she’s even properly around the corner. 

He’d be turned on if he weren’t so damn terrified. 

There are more shots, one and then two and he thinks maybe he hears the zing of one as it flies above his head, but still Rick hangs back, waits for his chance, and moves in the opposite direction. 

They can flank them this way and it’d be a brilliant plan if only he wasn’t so useless and without a gun. 

He spies Esposito, watches the other man shrink in on himself, trying to make himself a smaller target while the bullets fly around him. Ryan’s on the floor, on his back, and Rick panics for a moment, thinking the worst, until the younger man rolls. 

Alive then. 

Good. That’s good. He can keep going with that. 

Rick sticks to the edges of the room. He stays in the shadows, stays low, hidden behind crates and hulking pieces of metal as he circles around. He knows he’ll be no good to any of them if he winds up shot. 

And yes. There. Kate’s taken out the second guy before Rick sees the third weaving through the warehouse towards her. 

There’s nothing nervous about the way the guy handles his weapon, mid-shoot out and there’s nothing but steel in the set of his shoulders, and this is him, Rick realises, this is their guy. _Lockwood._

He’s getting closer to Rick’s position and the writer pauses. If he moves, he’ll give himself away and windup with a shiny new bullet hole. Or worse. But he’s close enough to see the assassin’s shoulders lock, watch him steady the rifle. 

Lockwood aims, finger at the ready, and whatever it is that overtakes him, it’s white and hot and surges through his veins so fast that Rick forgets where he is. He forgets about the gunfire and the warehouse and the danger because – 

_Kate_. 

– Him or her and he’ll always pick her. 

Instinct, raw and animal drives him and then he’s on top of the guy and he doesn’t stop until he feels something break, until he hears the crack of bone, and he’s not sure if it’s his hand or the man’s face, but the sniper’s stopped struggling beneath him and that’s good enough. 

There’s blood on his fist, red and hot, and he lets Lockwood’s weight drop to the cement floor. 

“You okay?” 

“Huh?”

Kate’s looking at him, concern on her face, and he realises that he’s still breathing heavily, still on top of the unconscious man. He relaxes the fist that’s still clenched, drawn back, at the ready. 

“Never better,” he says and they both know it’s a lie. 

“Help me untie the guys,” Kate says, pausing next to him to place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah.” 

“See if he’s got a knife,” she says when he hauls himself off the guy.

She’s all business then, checking the guys, securing the scene, and it’s not until much later, when her hands turn gentle around his and her expression becomes tender, that he can think about how close he came to losing her to a bullet. Again. Fuck. 

If he thought three years of _nearly_ could make him immune to it, the way his heart still squeezes his chest in fear tells him otherwise. 

He could have lost her tonight.

Before he told her.

_How he feels. What she means. What they are to him. Why he comes back._

Still, he finds a laugh for her, a smile when she jokes, because that’s who they are and it’s what they do. She thanks him, for having her back, and he promises her always and when she leans over and kisses him lightly he thinks, maybe, their forever might not be that far away after all.

\--

Her apartment is dark when they enter and he fumbles for the light switch because he ended his relationship with Gina and she dived into hers with Josh. He was done pretending and maybe she wasn’t, and he can’t stand the reminder. Not tonight. 

He’s kept his distance since that night, the one they don’t speak of, and he doesn’t know what he expected, but he’s surprised that nothing has really changed. 

He’d been there earlier, of course, but it’s only now, without the threat hanging over their heads, without the sense of the immediate, that he allows himself to look. He lets his eyes roam and he finds them drawn to her couch. He knows she’s giving him an odd look as he stares, but he can’t stop. He’s looking for some sign of them, her and him, or _them_ , her and Josh, but he finds neither and he doesn’t know if he’s okay with that because, at least, if she’s passing up a chance with him, he’d like to know it’s for something worth it. 

“You okay, Castle?”

“Not really.” At her raised eyebrow he adds, “My hand is killing me.” 

“Lets get some more ice on it.” She lifts it between her own gingerly and the tenderness he’d seen on her face earlier stretches to encompass them. 

Rick lets her lead them to the kitchen, and he’s careful in the way he ignores the way it mirrors that night. Their night. It’s almost the same. Almost, except that, this time, he’s the one who’d nearly lost her. 

Fuck. He nearly lost her, didn’t he?

She lets go of him to open the freezer and he doesn’t mean to crowd her, but his heart is still tapping out a wild pattern in his chest and he finds himself standing so close that he can feel the cold gust of air over her shoulder. 

They’d given their statements at the scene, his from the back of an ambulance, hers while hovering outside. 

Kate saved the lives of two officers and apprehended the suspect in their murder case, but IA had still taken her gun and her badge. It was procedure, they’d assured her, nothing more. 

Rick had insisted on escorting her home. Partners. They were partners. Partners looking out for each other. Nothing more.

She hadn’t fought him. 

Now, he’s not sure if it was the wisest idea. He can still taste her on his tongue from earlier in the evening and he remembers the feel of her around him from earlier in the year and he’d seen the press of the other man’s lips, the grim determination in his eyes. He’d nearly lost her and heaven help him but needs her – needs her like he’s needed nothing else. 

Her hand on his chest snaps his attention back to her and he blinks. She presses until he steps backwards and she pushes far enough that he has to lean against the counter. 

Kate follows his forced retreat, keeping the space between them minimal and when she twists around him to reach for a dishtowel her hair tickles his cheek. 

It’s too much to try and not breathe her in, so he settles, instead, for hoping she won’t catch him.

The hand settled on his chest moves with her, long fingers stroking against the fabric of his shirt and it’s meant to soothe, he thinks, but it doesn’t. 

“Your heart is racing, Castle.”

“Must be the adrenaline.” 

It’s thin and there must still be traces of it on his face – fear, anger – but Kate says nothing as she lifts his hand between them and begins to unwrap the bandage.

“Do you think this could be it?” He isn’t sure why he’s asking except that he hasn’t the courage to bring up the kiss or the couch or the great big _them_ in his mind but he doesn’t want to leave and he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

It’s familiar territory for them, theorizing on a case. It’s their thing and he expects her to fall into it with him, expects to find their feet somewhere comfortable, but Kate pauses and when her eyes flick up to meet his, he can’t read the expression in them. “I don’t know, Castle.” 

“If we can get Lockwood to roll over on who hired him, we can find out who ordered the hit on your mother.” 

“Yeah.” 

Kate reaches around him again to grab the ice and Rick winces when she presses it against his bruised fist. 

“Do you think he’ll talk?” he prompts when she remains silent. “Kate?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. 

She sounds so defeated that Rick lets it drop and they stand in silence as the ice slowly melts between them. His hand is numb by the time she finally steps away and drops the ice in the sink. 

He thinks she’s going to ask him to leave, but then Kate steps closer, closing the distance between them and her face finds the crook of his shoulder and wriggles it’s way across until her nose is pressed in the space where his throat meets his chest. 

She takes deep breaths, in through her nose, out through her mouth, and he knows because he can feel them against his skin. 

She feels fragile pressed against his chest, too thin, and she’s lost some weight, he thinks. She isn’t eating well, he knows, hasn’t been sleeping well either. He’s been sneaking real sugar into her coffee for at least the last few weeks but it hasn’t made much of a difference. She must know, because she’s been leaving it more often than drinking it, but she’s never called him on it and yeah, he’s worried about her. 

Rick tightens his arms around her when he feels her body start to tremble. 

Adrenaline, he thinks, leaving her system, but then he feels something wet and hot against his neck and realises they’re tears. She’s crying silently, face hidden against his neck, but she’s in his arms and that means something, so he pulls her tighter against his chest and lets his lips drop to rest on the top of her head. 

He whispers to her, keeping his voice soft and his promises simple as he runs his palm along her back in slow circles. 

Eventually, the trembling stops and then she tries to pull away with a soft, “Sorry.”

Rick tightens his arms around her. “Don’t be.”

She turns her head and he thinks he feels the press of a kiss against his neck.

He pulls away then, tries to glimpse her face, but she drops her head. “Kate?”

“I killed two men today, Castle.”

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

“You _saved_ two men today.”

She shakes her head, presses her face back against his neck and he wraps his arms around her once more, lets her find comfort in him. Hopes she does, in any case. 

He hasn’t seen this side of her, this weight she carries, and he wants to tell her that she’s being ridiculous, except that she’s not, not really. She saved two men today, yes, but there are two men who are dead too. Her fault? No. But by her hand, yes, and he can see how that would hurt her all the same. 

“It was self-defence,” he says against the top of her head. And then, “You did what you had to.” 

When she doesn’t respond he keeps speaking, doesn’t know what else to do. “I could have killed Lockwood, I think. When I saw the gun trained on you I snapped. Didn’t know what I was doing.”

She tenses in his arms then. “You wouldn’t have killed him, Castle.”

“I might have.”

“You didn’t.” 

“No. But I would have, if I’d been too late-” He can’t finish the thought. 

She tries to pull away then, tries to look at him, but he locks his arms around her, buries his face in her hair. 

“How can you have so much faith in me?” It’s broken, her question, muffled into the collar of his shirt and his heart breaks a little because he can’t tell her, can he? 

They slept together once, a moment of life and affirmation and surrender to the need, the pull between them, and it was more than a month before the silences between them stopped being awkward, before they found their equilibrium again.

“You’re easy to believe in,” he tells her instead, because it’s the truth, even if it’s only half of it. 

They were finally someplace comfortable, somewhere between the touches that are a little too frequent and the tense moments that are a little too revealing, and he’s not willing to give it up. He’s not. Except-

_Why do you keep coming back?_

“Castle-”

_Why?_

“I love you.” And then he drops his arms, and it’s almost funny how it makes him recoil from her as fast as it makes her from him. Except that it’s not because he didn’t mean to say it, didn’t ever mean for her to hear it, even if he thinks she must have known it by now. 

“I can’t-”

It’s a sentence he’s finished enough times in his own head to know where she’s going with it. 

He cuts her off with, “I’m sorry.” And steps around her, tries not to meet her eyes. 

“Thanks for the ice.” And then, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Beckett.” Because he’s her partner, her friend, and not her lover. It’s a box he checked himself. 

_Partner, then._

And he’s nearly there, nearly out of the kitchen, when her hand catches his arm. 

He opens his mouth – to apologise again? He’s not sure. But she’s spun him around and she’s pulling him towards her and her lips are bruising against his. 

She tastes like tears and metal and it’s not an _I love you too_ , it’s more an _I need this_ but she’s not kicking him out and that’s more than he expects. He had his chance earlier, when she’d asked him why he keeps coming back and he’d told her what she’d needed to hear instead. 

_Partner._ Not Lover. _Partner_ because he was sure that’s all she wanted from him, except that she’s kissing him now and it’s hard and rough and a little bit desperate. 

Kate’s tongue pushes past his lips, demanding, and it’s intense in a way that none of their previous kisses have been. She tugs on his lips, pulling them between her teeth and biting and hot and he meets her need with his own. 

Rick lets his hands slide down her back to her waist. He pulls her against him and he can ignore the pain that shoots through his hand when her lips leave his to travel across his jaw and down his neck. 

Two small hands fist in his shirt and buttons fly as she’s pulling him closer and pulling the shirt apart at the same time. 

Rick slides his hands to her bottom, lifting and spinning to settle her on the counter. She pulls him between her legs and his teeth nip at her neck. 

A hand finds him through their clothes and he groans, dropping his forehead to press against her neck as his hips move of their own accord. 

He’s near his breaking point.

But he won’t be able to ignore this tomorrow, he knows, and so he pleads, “Tell me to stop, Kate.”

“Don’t,” she says. She flicks open the button on his pants. “Don’t stop.” 

\--

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a weight on his chest, warm, soft curves heavy against his side, and she smells of sleep and sex and midnight and it’s the first thought when he wakes, that he must still be dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up. Work exploded all over my spare time and I’ve been running full pelt all week. I’m on call this weekend, though, so I need to stay home and stay _sober_ and so I should have the next chapter up shortly.

the gasp and stutter of a heart 4/?

\--

There’s no fog to struggle through, no echoing taste of alcohol in his mouth and it’s a gradual sense of awareness that brings him out of slumber.

There’s a weight on his chest, warm, soft curves heavy against his side, and she smells of sleep and sex and midnight and it’s the first thought when he wakes, that he must still be dreaming. 

But no, there’s a throbbing ache in his fist and he can feel the press of her knee against his thigh, the tickle of her hair beneath his chin and his dreams are never so complete in their detail. 

He’s awake, then.

And he’s in her bed. 

She’s sprawled on top of him, boneless and naked and content, and her fingers are moving in patterns along his shoulder and so she must be awake too – 

And she’s still with him. 

– And that realisation is enough to jolt him into full consciousness. 

His eyes remain closed, but he must still or shift or shiver, he isn’t sure, because she knows he’s awake suddenly and her fingers pause in their dance against his skin. 

Kate lifts her head from his chest and he can feel her muscles coil as her body tenses and stretches. She shifts against him, skin on skin, delicious and warm and _comfortable_. Confident. And it’s so fantastically different than the last time they’d woken together, so much more of what he’d hoped for, that when her palm presses flat against his skin, when her hand slides upwards to the trace the curve of his jaw, he wonders if it isn’t just an incredibly vivid dream after all. 

“Morning,” he says and then her nose is pressed beneath his jaw. 

Her lips find his neck and her tongue is hot against his skin. “Not time to get up yet,” she says, and sure enough it’s still dark when he finally manages to open his eyes. 

“No,” he agrees, “not going anywhere yet.” 

Kate slides her knee up to his hip, shifts so she’s pressed closer to him, her body melting into his as their lips meet and he wonders if it’s just the night before bleeding into the morning after. He wonders if, when the sun is fully up, she’ll regret this just as much. 

But no, this is different; the feel of it is different. This is _them_. And it’s not desperate or angry or urgent. Her kiss is slow and hot and a little bit tender and it doesn't feel wrong.

“Sleep,” she tells him, nails scratching lightly through his hair. 

Rick slides his hands down her back and his fingers twitch against her skin like a stutter when she moans, breath hot and heavy against his skin on the exhale. 

Her hips move against his side in a slow roll, a seductive dance, but she doesn’t need to seduce him, he’s already hers. 

He told her as much last night. 

“Sleep,” he echoes, but he’s rolling, on top of her and there’s laughter in her eyes. And so he adds, “Later.” _Or Never_ , but he doesn’t say that, he just works at drawing her bottom lip from between her teeth. 

“Later,” she agrees, and it feels like a promise, whispered against his lips. 

 

\--

 

“Coffee?”

Rick nods his head. “Thanks.” 

He leans against the kitchen counter, half naked because she’s wearing his shirt from the night before, her small frame swamped by fabric that comes down to her thighs. 

And it’s awkward, how easy it all seems, watching her move about the kitchen. He’s more confused than not because she _isn’t_ pushing him out the door, because she’s smiling at him, meeting his eyes with a twinkle in her own. There’s no panic or guilt or accusation, it’s just him and her and it’s strange how comfortable it seems. 

It feels like a continuation of something that never really had a beginning. 

Kate hands him a mug of coffee and when their fingers brush she smiles at him, a small, secret little twist of her lips. 

His heart stutters with hope, but it’s not right, is it? Because she’s still taken, still attached to another man, and the beginning of his question is out of his lips before he has a chance to stop it.

“What about-” _Josh? Tomorrow? Forever?_

But he can’t finish the thought out loud because she smells of him and he smells of her and he doesn’t want to burst this bubble they’ve created, to let the reality of their situations steal in and destroy the peace. 

But it must show on his face and so she answers him anyway. “Gone,” she says.

Gone?

“When will he get back?” Rick asks, thinking she just means _away_ , like she has in the past. He wonders if he’s just the substitute, then. If he’s the understudy for her boyfriend’s absence, her second choice, and he hates himself for thinking of it that way – for thinking of it at all. 

“He won’t.” There’s an edge to her voice, a defensive note in her tone. Her arms fold across her chest and her eyes grow distant. 

She’s nervous, suddenly, he can tell, and she's looking at him as if he’d want to undo the last few hours and – 

Oh.

No.

He wants to ask how long the other man has been gone, how long they’ve been over. More than that, he wants to ask why she didn’t tell him, why she kept it a secret. But he doesn’t, because she’s withdrawing, pulling in on herself and he’s not going to make it easy for her, this retreat. 

She’s still wearing his shirt, hair still a tangle from his fingers, lips still swollen from his kiss, and no, he’s not going to let her pull away. 

Because now she’s his. Could be. Might be. Maybe. If she’ll let him claim her. If she’ll have him back. 

The mug finds a place on the counter, forgotten, and then he’s stepping forward to pull her into his arms. She’s stiff against him, but his grip is light and she doesn’t pull away.

He presses a kiss to her temple, has to bend to do it, but he wants her to feel the smile against her skin. “Good,” he says, and then, “Great.” 

Kate relaxes against him then, unfolds, and her arms find their way around his waist. She squeezes him once, tight, and then pulls back to look up at him. 

He thinks, the way her head is tilted might be an invitation, and so he presses a kiss against her lips, gentle and a little hesitant. When he pulls away she’s smiling and yeah, maybe it’s still a little awkward, but it’s something, this whatever they are. 

“Come over tonight,” she tells him, and it’s not a request so much as a demand but he nods his head because yes, he will, of course he will. 

\-- 

_TBC…_


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re going to go up in a great big mushroom-shaped puff of smoke, any minute now and he won’t see his daughter again. Or his mother. He won’t drink that scotch he’s been saving. Or get the chance to tell Kate that he doesn’t regret any damn thing.

It’s the look on her face that finally shatters Rick’s fragile hold on his own reaction. She’s terrified and the panic he’s been trying to swallow bubbles forth.

This is bad.

He didn’t even know she carried a radiation detector; it’s never gone off before. And now there are faceless men in HAZMAT suits, nobody will answer his questions and he’s forced to do nothing but watch as Kate shreds the corner of her coat with her fingers. 

This is the _bad_ kind of bad. 

He doesn’t want to go there – it’s too cliché and it’s been done too many times, but he can’t stop himself from thinking the word _terrorist_. 

“It’s a bomb.” It’s the only thing that makes sense. “A nuclear bomb.” 

They’re going to go up in a great big mushroom-shaped puff of smoke, any minute now and he won’t see his daughter again. Or his mother. He won’t drink that scotch he’s been saving. Or get the chance to tell Kate that he doesn’t regret any damn thing. 

_Time of his life. Wouldn’t change a thing._ All that.

He’s about to speak, because he can do that last thing, at least, but she’s clutching her midriff then, nearly doubled in half, and she won’t want to hear it from him now anyway. With some effort, Rick forces his thoughts to silence themselves. 

He sits opposite her, apologises, and accepts the grimace she offers him for the grin he thinks it means to be. 

It’s quiet then, because, for once, Rick’s not sure how to open a conversation and Kate’s distracted, there but not, adrift somewhere inside her own head. 

He settles eventually for, “Read any good books lately?” Because, yeah, okay, maybe he’s a little scared and maybe he needs her with him.

Kate snorts. “Really? You’re going from Nuclear Holocaust to what I’ve picked up at the library?”

He shrugs because what he really wants to say is _I love you_ and possibly _why have you been avoiding me?_ but he remains silent because they’re together, yeah, but they’re not exactly together like _that_ and it’s still fresh, this thing between them. They’ve had just a few short weeks of being a _them_ instead of a _him_ and a _her_ and they’re still feeling things out, finding their new boundaries, testing their new limits. 

“Sorry my conversation skills aren’t up to your high standards, Detective. It’s been a while since I’ve had to make small talk under the banner of a nuclear threat.” 

Kate reaches out, her right hand catching his left, the one he has pressed against his knee. Rick flips his hand beneath hers, lets their fingers twine, and then she’s tugging, bridging the space between them with her gentle grip. 

He settles next to her, close enough their shoulders are rubbing, his thigh pressed to hers, and she leans in to him, lends him some of her weight. And then it doesn’t hurt so much, even as she says, “This is why you’d make a terrible spy.”

He holds a hand to his chest, nudges his arm against hers. “You wound me.”

She smiles softly and he adds, “Cruel woman.” But her mood has shifted and it’s what he was hoping for.

Before the silence has a chance to settle, become comfortable, he squeezes the fingers still trapped between his. “How are you doing, really?”

The smile drops off her face as easily as it appeared and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth – she’s nervous – but she’s still solid against his side, doesn’t pull away, and that’s something, at least. 

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“You want to elope?” he asks, and he’s only half joking when he says it. At her look – raised eyebrow, slight panic – he’s reminded of his impromptu confession of _I love you_ and the way she’s never said it back, the way they _don’t talk about it_ , and so he quickly adds, “Or we could run away and join the circus.” 

She shakes her head, not a hint of a smile on her face, and he knows it’s going to be bad when she starts with, “Rick-”

The unzipping of the tent interrupts her words and they jump apart as a man, his top half hanging out of an orange Hazmat suit, steps through the opening.

“You’re free to go.” 

Rick almost wants to plead for more time because _come on_. He’s going to spend days on that one word alone. 

“What about the radiation?”

“We found residual traces of Cobalt 60 in the storage unit. Not enough to cause any health problems.”

Message delivered, the man turns to leave and that, Rick surmises, is their cue to be relieved, but when his eyes dart across to her Kate isn’t smiling. There’s a frown etched across her face and her hand is pressed, once more, against her stomach. 

Rick thinks, maybe, she’s going to be sick.

“Kate?” 

She doesn’t acknowledge him, instead she raises her voice before the other man can escape. “What about-” 

The guy pauses, one foot outside. “What, Detective?”

Kate’s eyes slide towards Rick. “Nothing.” 

“Right,” the man says, and then he’s gone, replaced by Montgomery and the mission and fuck, he knew it. A bomb. 

“Come on, I can fill you in on the way,” the Captain says.

Rick nods and he’s right behind the man, his mind already whirring when Kate speaks. 

“Actually, Sir,” and there’s a quality to her voice he’s only rarely heard. “Can I meet you there?”

“You all right, Beckett?” 

She’s nodding her head but avoiding her Captain’s eyes. “Fine, Sir. I just need to take care of something first.”

“All right,” Montgomery says, and though his eyes are narrowed, Rick catches a hint of genuine concern in his voice. “Do what you need to, but try not to dawdle, Detective. We could use you on this.” 

“Of course.”

The Captain turns then, walks out of the room with purpose, and Rick’s not sure if he’s supposed to follow him, but Kate catches him by the sleeve, holding him back with the lightest of grips. “Rick?”

He thinks, maybe, she’s going to continue their aborted conversation and maybe it’s not the best time for it, but hadn’t he just been wishing for more time for them, just moments ago? 

Yes. 

He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not even now – maybe especially not now – and so he waits for Roy to leave before he turns back to face her. “Kate?” 

“I need you to take me to the hospital.” 

_Oh_ is his first thought. And then, _Shit_ , because he damn well knew something was wrong. It’d be too easy for them to just walk away from this, wouldn’t it? 

_Shit._

He’s invading her personal space as his eyes search her face but she doesn’t recoil from his proximity, she leans towards him, sinks into him, and that only makes his panic grow. He’s still new at this, still feeling out the changing dynamics in their relationship, but he knows this isn’t right. Letting him – letting anyone – see how weak she is, see her need for something. She doesn’t do this, not his Kate. 

Is she sick, then? Really sick?

He can’t tell. 

He isn’t sure what he’s looking for – what does radiation poisoning look like? 

“Is something wrong? Are you okay? They said we should be fine. They said-”

Kate shakes her head and he’s close enough that her hair brushes against his cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong, Kate.” 

“Just.” Her voice breaks off and she’s tense, her body rigid against his. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her tighter into his chest. She’s cold and maybe, he thinks, he can lend her some of his warmth. 

He feels her swallow and then, “Please.” 

“Of course, Kate. Of course I’ll take you.” 

– –

TBC…


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss to her forehead and then she pulls away, offers him a watery smile, and his chest contracts. His to love or not, he already might.

Rick makes a quick phone call – to his mother rather than his daughter – and arranges for them to be gone, her and Alexis both, before he’ll get back to the loft and then they’re in the back of a taxi, he and Kate, on the way to the nearest hospital. 

They speed through the city and he tries to shift his focus to the people they pass in the streets, living their lives, oblivious, and he’s very carefully not thinking. 

Not about the woman sitting next to him. Not about the women he’s sending away. 

And especially not about the idea that he could have already lived through the last time he’ll see his daughter. He thinks he’s doing an admirable job until they pass a young girl, red hair and he swears she’s wearing the same backpack Alexis had when she was five, and then he’s wondering what the last thing he told her was. 

_God,_ but he can’t remember. 

Something about school, he thinks, or homework, maybe? And it’s not how he wants his child to remember him, but if he rings now she’ll know something is wrong, she’ll refuse to leave, and he needs her gone. 

He needs her safe.

Her, at least. 

“You okay, Castle?”

_No. Not even close._

Kate’s right hand is clutching his, their fingers laced, and when his eyes flick back in her direction, he finds her left hand still curled around her abdomen. 

And yeah, he feels like an idiot when he thinks about how long it’s taken him to realise because she wouldn’t ask him to take her to the hospital, would she? 

No, not his Kate, not when there are lives at stake. 

Not for herself, anyway. 

And how has he not noticed? When half his waking time is spent focusing on her, how could he not have realised? 

“How long have you known?” 

“What?”

He motions towards her abdomen and she’s not showing, not really, except that she is. It’s small but with her hand pressing he can make out a bump and, really, he should have noticed before. “That you’re pregnant. How long have you known?” 

Her face twists, the last of her resolve crumbling until all that’s left is fear and guilt and a terrible kind of agony that he can feel an echo of in his chest. 

Rick expects her to pull away but no, instead, her fingers tighten around his until it’s almost painful. 

He hears her, “Not long,” and then he doesn’t hear much else because _not long_ could be a few days. Or it could be a week. It could be exactly as long as she’s been avoiding him, and that’s not a good sign, is it? 

No.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she admits and he nods his head, offers her a weak smile, because tell him what, exactly? 

_That she was pregnant? That she’s carrying another man’s child? That she can’t do this with him? Doesn’t want to?_

“It’s okay,” he says. A lie, and he expects her to accept it, but she shakes head. 

Her eyes close against her pain, shield him from it, and, “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

He pulls her into his arms, lets her hide her face against his chest, because no, neither did he. 

He doesn’t know anything about radiation and pregnant women except that it’s not good and maybe it won’t matter, maybe they’re all doomed anyway, but that doesn’t make a difference. Not to her, he knows, and not to him. 

“You’re going to be fine. Both of you.” It’s another lie but this time it’s one they both need because she wants this baby, he can tell, and yeah, he wants it for her too. 

They’re only a few weeks into this thing, barely a month, and they’ve skipped all the steps, done it all backwards, and no, it can’t be his. Even if there was a chance, if he thought there was a chance, but no. Not with the way she’s been pushing him away, not with the way she’s been avoiding him. 

Josh’s then. Josh’s child. 

And Rick would love her anyway, her and her child, his to love or not. He just doesn’t know that she’d give him the chance. 

A kiss to her forehead and then she pulls away, offers him a watery smile, and his chest contracts. His to love or not, he already might. 

He lifts their joined hands, cradles hers between his own, his two to her one, and hopes with her, prays for her, even as his mind starts to spin without his permission. 

He doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to think it, but she’s been pushing him away, hasn’t she? And so one by one, one scene at a time, he’s writing himself out of her life, creating a future for Kate and the child she carries, one that doesn’t include him in it. 

A sign outside the window catches his eye, they’re nearly there, and what hurts the most is that he’s wishing for it. Hoping she’ll have the chance to live that life, even if she won’t include him in it. 

“Do you want me to call Josh?” Rick asks, though he wants to do anything but that. 

“What?” She’s suddenly tense beside him. “No. No, last I heard he’s in Haiti.”

Rick tries to swallow it but the question spills forth heedless. “Does he know?”

“It’s not-” She pauses. Tries again. “He’s not-”

Rick lets her hand go, wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him. The press of her nose against his throat, the emotion it stirs, is so achingly painful that he has to swallow past a lump. 

“I haven’t told anyone yet,” she says. A confession against his collar. And then, “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

“How far along are you?” 

“Thirteen weeks,” she says, and he can feel the way she bites her lip. _Thirteen weeks_ , as if it should mean something to him.

It doesn’t. 

Until it does.

Because thirteen weeks? That was when? Right about the time they were investigating Tyson, wasn’t it? Right about the time they first slept together. Except that no. No. Because she doesn’t mean– 

_Him. You. Yours._

–And he’s not. Not thinking she does. 

The cab slows, turns into the drive.

“We’re almost there,” he says and she nods against the side of his neck. 

Softly, “I wanted to tell you first.”

And Rick doesn’t ask why, but she tells him anyway and his heart expands, even as it contracts – _his heart, his whole world_ – and it’s as painful as it is not when she says, “It’s yours.” 

– –

_TBC…_


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it’s almost funny how this? Her ideals? Her sense of selflessness? Was one of the things he loved most about her yesterday.

_Lucky_ the doctor calls them. 

Hours of waiting in the hard plastic chair next to Kate’s bed, hours of _non-cancerous health effects_ echoing in his head, and the doctor calls them _blessed_. 

He mentions something about biological equivalent doses and effective depths. Technical jargon that flies over Rick’s head. Absorbed doses and maximum depths and exposure times and _a chance_ is what he hears. Everything is up to chance, but theirs are good. 

And they’re lucky. Lucky it was Cobalt. Lucky the exposure was so brief. Lucky their baby is so far along. 

It doesn’t feel much like luck.

But then – 

A boy, the doctor says, a son. 

He hears the baby’s heart beat, fast and strong, hears it with his own ears, and he watches as it moves on the screen, small hands and tiny feet twitching, jerking with life. 

And it’s real, isn’t it? Oh so very real in a way that it wasn’t before because _pregnant_ and _yours_ are one thing, but that, there, on the screen – living, growing, being – is real in a way that makes everything else seem small. 

– And then yeah, he almost feels lucky.

But.

“We’ll need to keep you for observation,” the doctor explains to Kate but she’s shaking her head, no. 

He almost feels lucky. Until he remembers. 

“No,” Rick says, and he hates himself for it, but, “we need to get back to the precinct.” 

Kate looks at him, gratitude in her eyes. She’s happy he made the call. He hates that he can.

He offers her a smile but it’s weak because all he wants to do is bundle her up, keep her safe, her and their child. He wants to run, wants to take her somewhere apart from this, from the chaos, and keep her there, like his mother, like his daughter, but she won’t leave, he knows, can’t leave, and so he won’t ask her to. 

And it’s almost funny how this? Her ideals? Her sense of selflessness? Was one of the things he loved most about her yesterday. 

– –

They’re flying through the streets, getting closer and closer, soaring towards the bomb and the end and certainty and he hopes that he’s wrong but no, he’s not because then they can see it. 

The black van pulls out in front of them and all he wants is to ask her to turn around but she’s pulling along side, pulling in front, and stopping the car to fly into danger. 

She’s talking to Nazihah, the baby girl’s mother, when he finds it and they have minutes then, just two, and they’re already ticking down.

“Beckett!” 

Kate’s with him then, next to him, a hand clutching his coat sleeve. 

Over. God. It’s all over, isn’t it?

Her eyes skitter towards him as she rattles off the where and the what to dispatch and _three minutes_? They don’t have three minutes.

“That’s two minutes too late.” 

Her eyes fill with regret, with sadness and sorrow and pain and he can see it’s aimed at him, for him, and _why_? Honestly, did she expect he’d want to be anywhere but with her – right next to her – if his world was about the end? 

A minute and a half. Ninety seconds. Less. 

Nothing left to lose.

Except.

Everything.

Everything to lose. 

It’s a little insane, because she hasn’t told him she loves him and he hasn’t told her more than that one time, but everything and nothing and he does. He _does_. He loves her. 

And he thinks she does too, loves him too, and somewhere they’re living another life, another reality, where they’re having a baby and they live long enough to see it born. 

Rick takes her hand, seconds ticking down in his head, and he asks, “Marry me?”

Kate stares at him, silent, a thousand thoughts dancing across her face and time, precious as it is, slips past them while he waits for her reaction. 

It’s tense and awkward and he thinks, maybe, he’s ruined it, their last moments together, but then it breaks. Her face cracks, a smile, and she ducks her head, tries to hide it from him. 

Sixty seconds.

“Kate?”

“Ask me tomorrow, Rick.” 

And it’s not an answer, but the hope in her eyes, the wish, that says everything he needs to hear. If he could ask her again she might say yes. 

A hand against her cheek, thumb stroking the corner of her eye. “Okay.” 

“I do love you.” 

And he wants to say it back, but there’s too much. Too many words choking up his throat and she deserves to hear it again, deserves to know, but he can’t speak and so he says it without the words. 

Thirty seconds.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, to each of her eyelids, one on both of her cheeks. 

Twenty. 

When his lips find hers their kiss is desperate, hot, and she’s pouring herself into him, love and pain and goodbye and no. 

_No._

Because they didn’t die, frozen in a freezer, their little family of three, and he’s not going to let them die now. No. He’s not. 

Ten seconds.

Less.

Their foreheads press together, their breaths mix in front of them. 

He can’t. No. He can’t let this be the end. 

Rick reaches out blindly, wraps his hand around what he finds and everything he has, every hope, every dream, every wish for the future, he takes into his own hands. Fate be damned, his life and hers, and he rips them back from the precipice.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like she believes the world has lost some of it’s magic, but that’s crazy because awe is exactly what she inspired in him. That first day, yeah, and every one since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay.

There’s something about the way she says it, something about the way she sounds that slices just that little bit. It’s like she believes the world has lost some of it’s magic, but that’s crazy because _awe_ is exactly what she inspired in him. That first day, yeah, and every one since.

 

 _Magic_ is exactly what he feels and he decides that he needs to tell her, she needs to know.

 

“You know what I thought when I first met you?”

 

She shakes her head but the sad little smile morphs until there’s a smirk dancing across her face. “I might have an idea.”

 

“Other than that,” he says, eyes dipping to trace the curve in her lips.

 

“What did you think?” she asks, and she’s forcing a teasing note into her voice but he can hear the trace of melancholy too, the touch of need, and it makes him think that maybe he should continue, maybe it could be the right thing to do.

 

“A mystery I’ll never solve,” he tells her, and it’s the truth, even now, maybe especially now. “Even now, I’m still amazed. At the depths of your strength.”

 

The depths of her strength and the colour of her heart, and it’s true, but it’s more than that, more than a replay of the thoughts that danced through his mind when he met her. It’s how he feels, how he loves her, and the way she looks at him, the nakedness in her eyes, tells him that the moment is too deep, too heavy, and so he adds, “And your hotness.”

 

Kate rewards him with a laugh, upturned lips that press against the side of his neck, delicious and warm and nearly a kiss and he can forget, for a moment, that they’re chasing ghosts.

 

Her mentor, her friend, the first man she loved, maybe, gets himself killed in an alley, and Kate can’t let it go, can’t let it be and so Rick follows her, carries her, clear across the country. It’s a little bit like she’s letting him love her, a little bit like she’s letting herself need him, and so of course he does, because she’ll love him too, but she won’t marry him – _not yet_ – and so he’ll give whatever she’ll take, take whatever she’ll give, in the mean time.

 

He needed an excuse to visit the movie set, he’d told her, but no, he’d just needed to not let her do it alone.

 

Kate leans into him completely then, forehead against the line of his neck, nose finding the hollow at the base of his throat and it’s an emotion he doesn’t remember feeling before this, a desperate kind of excitement, when her swollen belly is pressed against his hip.

 

“It’s getting late,” he says, because it is and if they were in bed, at least, he knows it’ll be less painful for her back, but she shakes her head.

 

“I’m good, Castle,” she says. And she’s not, but she is, will be, for a little bit longer, at least.

 

And so he lets himself just hold her, just exist with her in that breath, and finds he wants to suspend the moment as long as he can because it’s nice, having her in the cocoon of his arms. It’s nice forgetting that there’s a great big world banging down their door.

 

The words are spoken against the top of her head, a quiet proclamation into her hair. “I love you.”

 

He feels her shift against him, tensing and unfurling and melting against him and then a breath against the side of his neck and, “I love you too.”

 

And his heart skips in its beat because it never gets old, never loses it’s magic. It just is. Just is something extraordinary, each time.

 

“Lets go to bed,” she says eventually, and he nods. She leads the way, one hand wrapped around his, fingers threading together as she tugs him through the somewhat tacky hotel room towards the master room.

 

He lets her lead, always does, and then they’re standing at the foot of the King sized bed and he doesn’t think they’ll need that much space, not with the way he wants her close. Not with how he can’t let her go.

 

And so he follows her to her side of the bed, climbs in after her, revels in her laugh.

 

“Scoot over,” he asks, and she does, makes space for him in the too-big bed and he falls asleep with her beside him, wrapped up in him, and it’s kind of like magic, except that it’s not.

 

It’s normal. It’s what normal people do.

 

 

– –

 

 

When he wakes it’s to find the rest of the bed empty.

 

The sheets are cold when he reaches across to touch them and it’s unusual to find them that way, recently at least, because she’s gotten better at the staying with him. At the sharing with him. She’s gotten better at the being together part of it all.

 

A quick flick of his eyes around the room reveals a crack of light creeping through the bottom of the door and when he drags himself out of bed he finds her on the couch.

 

“Kate?”

 

Her head snaps up and she hesitates, the indecision clear on her face, and she doesn’t know if she should hide from him, he thinks, but then she smiles, tentative, and holds out her hand.

 

“What are you doing up?” he asks as he spots the package in front of her. The plain brown paper is crumpled, creases so well worn it’s obvious the box has been unwrapped and re-wrapped multiple times.

 

Kate doesn’t answer, she just tucks into his side when he settles next to her.

 

He tilts his head back against the cushions, lets his eyes close. “Bit early to carry that with us, don’t you think?”

 

“You didn’t buy this, did you?”

 

“Of course I did.” He cracks open an eye to look at the small, white garment still clutched in her hand.

 

“Not recently,” she counters.

 

“No,” he admits, “not recently.” There’s no hiding the fact that it’s too soft, that it’s worn from washing, and he knows the feel of it, knows the smell of it off by heart. And then he asks, “Is that okay?” Because he’s not sure if it is. “We can get something else if you prefer, something new.”

 

“No,” she finally says, a shadow of emotion creeping into her voice. “This is more than okay.”

 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he gave her the gift. He knows it’s not exactly what someone would expect from _Richard Castle_ and it’s not extravagant or expensive, the recycled suit he brought his daughter home in, but he thought… well, he’s not sure what he thought, really, except –

 

History.

 

– There was history woven into the fabric.

 

“Alexis doesn’t mind?” She asks and he hears the question behind the one she asked.

 

“No,” he answers. “It was her idea.”

 

And it was. His daughter is happy. Excited. And Kate… Kate cares.

 

And it’s almost like his world is complete. His daughter, his partner, their child. Safe, happy, even halfway across the country. If the world stopped spinning, if it slowed down, if he could just live in this moment forever, he’d be more than happy.

 

– –

 

_TBC…_

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A reason to make a stand,” Kate says, a hand settling on top of her swollen belly, a thumb stroking gently. And then, “Someone to make it with you.” 
> 
> She means him, he knows. Means she forgives him. Means she loves him. Means so damn much.

Kate turns her back to him, moves away. She only makes it a few feet before her path is blocked by a stack of boxes and so she turns around, paces back.

 

When he catches sight of her face she looks angry, torn, and good, he thinks. Let her be. Because her belly is thick with his child and they’re supposed to be starting something together. A life. A family. All of it.

 

“If you’ve got something to say, please say it.”

 

“Kate, everyone associated with this case is dead. Everyone. First your mum and her colleagues. Then Raglan and McAlister.”

 

She shoots him a look that bruises him, that makes him drop his gaze from her eyes like a coward. But they asked him to save her, her father, her Captain. They came to him and asked him to try and save her, as if he would do anything but. And so he continues. As much as the thought bites at him, he tells her, “You know they’re coming for you next.”

 

She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like she doesn’t care but there are dark circles under her eyes. She can’t hide them from him – _can’t hide from him_ – not when he knows she hasn’t been sleeping well.

 

“Captain Montgomery has got a protective detail on me. Wasn’t that hard to spot.”

 

And it makes him furious, the way she can pretend to _not care._ The way she says it like it _doesn’t matter._ “It’s not enough! Damn it, Kate, it’s not enough.”

 

She recoils from him, shocked by his outburst and he is too, a little bit, because that won’t work, he knows that won’t work. He can’t force her to give this one up. She has to want to do it herself.

 

Rick takes a second to calm himself before he follows her. Just a moment. Just long enough to ignore the fact that they’re standing in her half-packed apartment, to pretend they might not be halfway through the beginning of the end.

 

“Think about what they’re up against,” he says. “Professional Killers?”

 

But she doesn’t look convinced.

 

“I’ve been working with you for three years,” he continues. He approaches her slowly, gentles his tone, relaxes his face. Let’s the truth of his emotions bleed into his features. “We’ve been friends for a lot of that time. We’ve been more than that for a while now. You know me, Kate, I’m the guy who says _we can_ , but sweetheart, I don’t think we’re going to win this.”

 

Kate doesn’t shrug off the hands he places on her shoulders, doesn’t pull away when they glide down her sides, circle around her waist. She lets him guide her towards him, lets him wrap his arms around her, pull her into his chest and she folds into him. Her forehead is cool against the side of his neck, her breath hot on his skin, and he holds her close, doesn’t want to afford her the chance to move away. She doesn’t try.

 

“Rick,” she says, “they killed my mother.” And there’s so much emotion in her voice, it’s so raw and so thick, that he aches along with her.

 

“I know.”

 

“What can I do? What choice do I have?”

 

He senses that she isn’t done and he waits, holds her in silence.

 

And then, “I can’t walk away.”

 

“It’s not worth it, Kate.” She stiffens in his arms, tenses against his chest. “It’s not worth your life. It’s not worth our son’s.”

 

“It’s my mother,” a whisper against his chest, weaker, defeated, and it breaks him just a little because he promised her, didn’t he? They’d do this _together_. 

 

But it’s _not_ worth it.

 

It’s not.

 

Just.

 

No.

 

“I won’t trade you for the sake of justice, Kate. Your mother wouldn’t either.”

 

“You don’t know that,” she says, and she’s feels fragile against him. She sounds uncertain, as if she believes she could be anything less than the world, be anything less his everything.

 

And that’s not right.

 

He’d tell her, but it’s more than just that, isn’t it?

 

Because he knows. And he knows her. And she doesn’t know how to be without it, how to exist _apart_ from it. Her mother’s case. She’s hidden inside it for so long, let it become so much a part of her that when she speaks it’s as if it’s the only legacy she might have to offer, the only destiny she could fulfil, but she’s already more than that.

 

“Of course I do,” he says. And he does. He knows. He knows more than anyone what it is to want her in the world. “I’m the father of your child. I’m the man who loves you. When I look to the future I see you in it, Kate, all I see is you in it, and I don’t want to lose that. I can’t lose that. I know because I’m the man who’ll lose everything if you die.”

 

“No.” She’s shaking her head against him, and he thinks she might pull away, but her arms tighten around his waist and she presses into him, presses against him.

 

“You’d move on,” she says, and it’s not an accusation. It’s not. It sounds almost like a compliment. Almost like a command. “You’d pick yourself up and you’d carry on, Rick. You have to.”

 

A beat. A silent acknowledgement.

 

 _Yes, he would_ , is what he thinks she must hear, but _No, he couldn’t_ is what he means.

 

He’s had to do it before, hasn’t he?

 

He’s raised a mother-less child.

 

He doesn’t want to do it again. Is not sure he’d survive the second time. Not sure he’d survive this kind of heartbreak.

 

“Don’t make me.”  
  
She’s silent and then, “Okay.”

 

Rick pulls back, cups her face between his palms, levels her with his gaze. “Okay?”

 

“I’ll stop.”

 

And it’s a relief. A sweet, glorious sense of relief. Is. Would be. But for the look on her face. Regret, heavy like tears in her eyes and she knows. She knows it’s too late.

 

And he does too.

 

Because she’s already in the crosshairs.

 

– –

 

“A reason to make a stand,” Kate says, a hand settling on top of her swollen belly, a thumb stroking gently. And then, “Someone to make it with you.”

 

She looks over at him as she speaks, a sad almost-smile on her face. She means him, he knows. Means she forgives him.  Means she loves him. Means so damn much.

 

Rick takes the hand she reaches out to him, lets the gentle tug sway him to her side. Their fingers link, her gloved ones thick between his, but he turns his head away, doesn’t want her to witness his tears.

 

And that’s when he sees it.

 

There’s a flash of light in the distance, a reflection that shouldn’t be there, and it tickles at his senses. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he tries to focus, to squint past the burn in his eyes, and then he catches it again. He sees it once and then twice, a twisted kind of Morse code, and he can feel the hesitation, can taste the way the air is thick with inevitability.

 

And no.

 

No, no, no.

 

_No._

 

Because her Captain died for her. Severed the last of her leads. Ended it. For her. For him.

 

And she chose to live. For him. _With_ him.

 

And no. God, no.

 

Him or her and he’ll always, _always_ pick her.

 

But it’s too late.

 

He’s too late.

 

He hears the shot, even as he’s moving, even as he’s colliding with her.

 

He feels it as it rips through the air around them, rips a hole in his world, and then it’s all over.

 

Everything.

 

His everything.

 

It’s all over. 

 

– –

 

_TBC…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. And I’m sorry. This was harder to write than I imagined. Hopefully I can have the last chapter up in a few days, it’s mostly writing itself. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped me with this, and thanks to everyone who left a note on the last chapter, it was very much appreciated and very encouraging. 
> 
> As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts. (Even if they are, as I’m assured they will be, death threats.)


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He scrubbed until he was raw, but the blood wouldn't shift,  
> wouldn't wash away, the guilt stained, a reminder tattooed on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I said this was going to be the last chapter but, as usual, the story made it’s own demands.

**the gasp and stutter of a heart 10/11**

 

– –

 

Too late.

 

He was too damn late.

 

A second faster, just one, and they would have – no.

 

Not laughed it off.

 

They wouldn’t have laughed it off, but they _could_ have. And now. Now. One damn second and he’s covered in blood.

 

_Hers._

 

He’s covered in her blood, thick and hot and wet, once, now crusted and dry on his hands, caked beneath his fingernails. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, but the blood wouldn’t shift, wouldn’t wash away, the guilt stained, a reminder tattooed on his skin.

 

Rick feels the prickle of eyes watching him and he knows that they are. Her father, her friends, her family, his. But when he looks up their gazes are averted, downcast. Not even Ryan will meet his eyes across the room.

 

They blame him, he knows, all of them, and it’s the hardest thing to swallow – the fact that they’re right – because they _should_ blame him. This is his doing, his own damn fault.

 

 _You didn’t pull the trigger_ , his mother’s voice, but he’s the one who put her in those crosshairs.

 

Too stupid and too proud and he couldn’t leave things well enough alone, could he?

 

No.

 

No, he had to prove he could be something for her, all those years ago, had to dig where he wasn’t wanted, to stir up the past.

 

And now.

 

Now his world is shattering around him and he just feels broken, feels less than whole, under the too-bright lights in the dull hospital waiting room.

 

The minutes drag as they sit, all of them, in hiccupping silence. His daughter is tucked under one of his arms and he doesn’t know how to break through the numb feeling to reach out to her. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the words to fix this. He doesn’t know they exist, even, and so he just holds her to him. He presses one hand flat against her back, holds her to his chest, and hopes his warmth can soothe her trembling.

 

“Will Kate be okay?” The question is a whisper against his skin, the little-girl voice he hasn’t heard in so very many years, and _he doesn’t know_ , but he can’t tell her that. 

 

“Kate’s strong,” he says, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not an answer either.

 

He wants to know, wants to _think_ , but all he can concentrate on are those minutes in the grass. All he can think about are those fragile moments in the ambulance where Kate clutched at his hand and he tethered her to life with his pleas. A fraction too slow and all he can think about is how much of her blood poured out into his hands.

 

“What about-” His daughter chokes on the words, the rest of her question lost, strangled by the emotion he can hear in her voice, but he fills in the end of it for her –

_The baby. My brother. Our family._

 

– And all he can do is press a kiss against the flame of her hair because he doesn’t know. He just. He doesn’t know.

 

He’s saved from answering at the arrival of a doctor but it’s nothing like relief, this thing that he feels. Terror, maybe. Anger. Desperate, aching fear.

 

It takes a push, a prompt from his daughter, before he remembers to stand next to Jim Beckett when they call for Kate’s family.

 

The woman introduces herself with a sad smile and a name he’s already forgotten. His face drains of blood and it spills over into his gut, thick hot acid and bile and twisting, terrible fate and all he can think is – Oh, God. No. – because it’s too soon. It’s much too soon to be anything like good news and he’s lost them.

 

He’s lost them both, hasn’t he?

 

The doctor looks to Kate’s father. He’s still listed as her next of kin because Rick was too slow – too slow with a ring, too slow in front of a bullet – and the senior Beckett’s face blanches.

 

Rick thinks the other man might collapse because – his daughter or his grandson. _His daughter or his grandson_. Pick, choose, that’s what they’re asking of him.

 

He watches as the older man buckles under the weight of it and –

 

“I’m the baby’s father,” Rick says.

 

– And, just like that, he shoulders Jim’s burden.

 

The doctor turns kind eyes on him, directs a gentle smile in his direction and all he can think is that she looks so _young._ Far too young to be carrying his everything in her hands. “Mr Beckett?”

 

“Castle,” he corrects. And then, “Rick.” No. “Richard.”

 

Every pair of eyes in the room are on him, he knows. Their gazes don’t waiver as he flicks his about, but there’s no courage to be found in the faces around him, just their own brand of fear compounding his own.

 

The young doctor tries to explain the situation to him, but it’s lost in a mess of words and all he hears is _Kate or their child_. She wants him to choose.

 

His heart or his blood.

 

Too much.

 

It’s too much.

 

It’s too much of a strain on her system. She’s lost too much blood. She’s too weak.

 

Kate might not survive the surgery if she’s still carrying the baby and they make it sound like a burden, a parasite, this child they already love.

 

It should be an easy decision, right? The baby can’t survive if she doesn’t. But. It’s too soon. Twenty-five weeks and he’ll still fit in the palm of his hand and it’s too goddamn soon.

 

It’s too much. Too much to ask of him.

 

_His heart over his flesh. His flesh over his heart._

 

And he knows what Kate would want him to do, but he’s not that strong, is he?

 

_No._

 

No, because he can’t live without her. But he can’t pick her over their son, either.

 

“Both of them.” The only answer he can give. “Please, save both of them.”

 

“Their best chance is apart,” she tells him and he nods his head, can’t find his voice, but she’s hesitating, waiting for him still. 

 

“Do it.”

 

There’s a breath, a moment, a shared exhale around the room. Relief, maybe, that he’s made a decision, even if it’s not the right one. But he doesn’t share it, can’t breathe through the ache in his chest.

 

The doctor leads him to a smaller room, leaves him to sign away his son’s life and his hand hesitates. His scrawled signature is shaky, and he hates it, hates himself for it, but he tried and he failed and he can’t ignore the feeling that he’s going to lose them both.

 

– –

_TBC…_

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know what to do with all the left over emotion. Anger and relief. Sheer joy and terrible, aching fear.

They let him see Kate first.  
  
After so long spent teetering on the edge of the knife’s blade, of waiting for the fall, wishing for it and dreading it both, now that he’s here, now that he can see her, he’s not sure how he feels.  
  
He doesn’t know what to do with all the left over emotion. Anger and relief. Sheer joy and terrible, aching fear. He feels all of it, all at once. It’s heavy, a thick knot between his shoulder blades, twisting and spinning until it bubbles over, steals into his breath on a sigh.  
  
“Oh, Kate.”  
  
She’s not awake, not yet, but it’s just a matter of time, and he knows that, tries to remember that, even as he takes in the delicate gossamer white of her face.  
  
Rick sits on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her as his eyes trace the lines around her eyes, the veins that are dark beneath her skin. His fingers itch to do the same, to soothe away the crease in her forehead, but he holds himself back. His hand pauses, hovers in the air above her skin, a whisper from her cheek. She looks so fragile, so terribly and utterly close to broken, that he can’t. He just can’t. Can’t risk that she’ll fall apart beneath his fingertips.  
  
He needs to touch her, though, the desire like an ache in his chest and so he settles for taking her hand, then, careful and gentle as he threads their fingers together. Her skin is cold, her hand limp in his, and he sits in silence, watching her face, listening for her breath.  
  
“Wake up,” he tells her. And then, “Please.”  
  
But she doesn’t stir, he didn’t expect she would, and he doesn’t leave. He _can’t_ leave, even when the nurse tells him he can see his son, because – how can he? And so he just sits, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist, his warmth bleeding into her skin.  
  
The minutes bleed into each other, the seconds tick into hours and still. Still. He doesn’t leave.  
  
– –  
  
He senses her stir, feels the shift towards consciousness, even before her fingers tighten around his own. He readies his face, forces a smile past the crack in his lips as her eyes flutter open.  
  
“Hey there,” he says, voice cracked from lack of use.   
  
She starts to smile, a soft whisper of a thing, but she shifts in the bed, tries to sit up and her expression twists into a wince. Her face wrinkles in confusion. “Castle?”  
  
“Lay still,” he instructs, a gentle hand against her shoulder, pushing her down onto the mattress. “Try not to move.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“You were shot.”

 

Her eyes cloud over and then, “I remember.”   
  
And he wants to go for help, to call for a nurse, but he sees the moment when she realises, watches as her hands ghost over her flat stomach. Her face twists in pain, a different, harsher kind, and then he can’t leave. He can’t leave her.

 

Not now. _Never_. But especially not now.  
  
“He’s okay,” he tells her.   
  
Kate’s eyes lock with his, hazy and unclear and desperately hopeful. “The baby?”  
  
“He’s okay, Kate.” His hands move to her jaw, cradle her cheek, slip around to tangle in her hair. She faces him. He makes her. Eye to eye. And, “We’re okay.”   
  
“He’s okay,” she echoes, and there’s no question in her voice. Just relief. Relief and hope and a little bit of awe.  
  
“He’s beautiful,” Rick says, and he feels a trickle of guilt down his spine because they’re his mother’s words, not his.  
  
She sinks back into the mattress, eyes heavy with sleep and relief, and she takes him with her, draws him down.  
  
He presses a kiss to her forehead, starts to pull away. A nurse. He needs to find a nurse. But her words, her question, cuts him short.  
  
“You’ve seen him?”  
  
Rick shakes his head. “Not yet.”   
  
And Kate tries to catch his hand, fumbles for his wrist, squeezes with an urgency she shouldn’t possess. “Make sure.”

  
“I will.”   
  
“Promise.”  
  
“I promise.”   
  
The hand around his wrist relaxes, the tense lines on her face fading. “Love you,” she says. “Love you both.”   
  
The words stick in his throat. “I know.”

 

Her eyes are drifting closed as he presses his lips to her temple, his silent, _you too_.  

 

– –

 

Touch, they tell him. His son will respond to his touch, will learn it, will live for it.  
  
 _Touch_ him.  
  
And so he does.  
  
He gives what he can, all he can. A shaking fingertip against the boy’s cheek. A nervous hand to his skin.  
  


The boy is swallowed by the breadth of his palm, small and delicate and breakable, and he feels the whole of him, his entirety, all at once. A stuttering, gasping heart beating beneath his hand.  
  
Rick can feel just how fragile the boy’s hold on life is, how strongly he clings to it, and it still hurts somewhere deep and elemental inside of him, watching the boy struggle to cling to life, but with each rise and fall of his small chest, each hard earned breath, hope starts to curl in his own. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want the hope to build him up, but can’t help it. Because this is him, reflected back at him. His son. His and Kate’s.  
  
 _Blue_ , the card at the bottom of the bed reads. _Blue eyes._ Not her hazel ones. But the boy’s ears, those are Kate’s. And his hands, the long, thin fingers, yeah, those are hers too.  
  
“Hey there, kid,” he says. He bends over, his thumb brushing across the shell of the boy’s ear, and he feels awkward, talking through the plastic. “I’m your dad.”  
  
The boy’s face wrinkles, a frown, and Rick feels it bubble inside his chest, the urge to laugh. He almost lets it out, the laughter, the nervous sense of relief he feels, because yeah, this is Kate Beckett’s kid, alright.  
  
“Your mum says hello,” he says, moving his face closer. “She wishes she could see you.”

 

The boy calms beneath his hand and settles deeper into sleep as Rick keeps up the monologue, the low hum in his voice. “She’s sorry you had a rough ride, but she wants you to know she loves you. I do too.”  
  
And with every stuttering breath, with each beat of the boy’s heart, the pain in Rick’s own chest starts to dull. The fear bleeds out of his shoulders. Hope and chance and _maybe, just maybe_ , settles in its place.  
  
The shattered pieces of his heart start to rebuild, to glue back together, and it’s not the same shape, it’s not like being whole, but it’s close. Close enough. He starts to dream again, to imagine. A future. He can picture a life beyond this day, one with his daughter and his son and Kate, all of them, together.  
  
“Welcome to the world,” he says, breath fogging against the clear sides of the crib. “Just hang in there, son. I promise it gets better.”  
  
– –  
  
The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks are in order. Firstly, to my Bro, without whom this wouldn’t be half the story it was. Literally. Egg farts aside, thanks, dude. To PenguinOfTroy for the endless encouragement. 
> 
> To everyone who has reviewed or commented or messaged me, thank you. This is the first multi-chapter story I’ve completed in seven years. It’s all to you, really. 
> 
> I’d love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
